


All My Loving For Someone Who's Loving Me

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Multi, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Troubletones rehearsal at Santana’s house doesn't go exactly as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Loving For Someone Who's Loving Me

“I don’t like you,” Santana says, immediately after she opens the front door.

  
She’s wearing a short skirt that’s screaming tight across her thighs. Her breasts are almost spilling out of the tank top she’s got on, and Mercedes has to make herself look away before she starts staring.

  
“Yeah, I don’t like you that much either,” she retorts, glad she’s never off her guard around Santana. “And you really need to work on those greeting skills.”

  
“Look, I just don’t want you to think this whole Troubletones thing means we’re besties now, _entiendes_? This is all about making sure Berry doesn’t get to use her sinister dwarf powers to grab the spotlight from more deserving people. And by people, I mean me.” She looks Mercedes up and down, slowly. “You too, I guess. Whatever, you’re not the worst.”

  
“ _Excuse_ me?” Mercedes says, astonished. “Not the worst? Girl, you couldn’t catch me on a run if you trained for a year.”

  
“You couldn’t catch me on an _actual_ run if I gave you a five minute head start, Weezy.”

  
Mercedes bites back a nasty response. No, she isn’t going there. As satisfying as it feels to get the better of Santana Lopez, it isn’t worth the distraction. They’ve got sectionals coming up, and nothing’s gonna stop her from taking home that trophy. “Forget it. You gonna invite me in, or just leave me standing on your doorstep? It’s freezing.”

  
“You’re _so_ lucky I’m bored right now,” Santana mutters, and swings the door wide open.

  
The house is nice, but it’s kind of sterile, not exactly the type of place Mercedes would call a home. It’s more like a showroom, with overlong drapes hugging the massive picture windows, and big, expensive looking paintings on the wall leading up the staircase. Everything’s white, or off-white, or something close to that, and it all looks like a stain removal commercial waiting to happen.

  
“My dad’s a doctor,” Santana offers, as they’re heading up the stairs. The nasty note’s gone from her voice, and Mercedes, as always, is amazed at how quickly she can turn it on and off. It makes her wonder exactly how much of Santana’s meanness is real and how much of it is just easy. “He’s totally rich. If you ever want a prescription for something, just let me know.”

  
“Prescription for what?”

  
Santana shrugs, not bothering to turn around, strutting down the bright hallway. Her hips twitch, skirt rolling up a little on her thighs as she walks, and this is _not_ something Mercedes needs to be noticing right now.

  
She shakes her head, shrugging off her coat and following Santana into the bedroom.

  
“Hey, Mercedes,” Brittany says, waving up at them. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed, a small mountain of candy in front of her. “Want some Dots? I can’t give you any of the yellow ones, though. I’m pre-chewing them for Lord Tubbington’s Sunday appetizer. Sorry.”

  
Mercedes drops her coat and purse on Santana’s desk. “Uh, I’m good, thanks.”

  
“Candy time’s over,” Santana orders. “We’ve got, like, three weeks until sectionals and I’m not letting the representative of the Lollipop Guild and her sock-phobic munchkin jester beat us, okay? You said you had some choreography you went over with Shelby, so show us.”

  
Brittany shrugs, and begins dropping the yellow Dots into a small, red drawstring pouch. It looks like it’s made out of velvet. “Are you taking me to Breadstix after we watch _Deadliest Catch_ later?” she asks. “Because it’s date night. You promised me last week I could try eating a sundae without a fork. I’ve been practicing.”

  
Santana freezes. Maybe if she hadn’t Mercedes wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary, but it’s the _way_ she freezes: in the middle of smoothing down her skirt, her shoulders hunched over. She doesn’t look up.

  
“You promised,” Brittany repeats, continuing her candy transfer.

  
Nothing happens for at least ten seconds. Mercedes doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say, or do, to let Santana know she doesn’t need to freak out about this, but she can’t find the words.

   
“So I guess you know now,” Santana snaps, straightening up, breaking the silence. She’s defiant. “Me and Brittany, we’re dating, okay? For real. I’m totally ladygay for her. You got a problem with that?”

   
Her voice is hard, but her face isn’t. She’s very clearly hoping Mercedes _doesn’t_ have a problem with that, and Santana looks, suddenly, close to tears.

   
“No problem at all,” Mercedes says, as gently as she can. “It’s cool, Santana. I’m glad for you guys. Really.”

   
Santana relaxes, visibly, the tension draining out of her body, and she sniffs, just once. “Yeah,” she mutters. “Thanks.”

   
“I _told_ you.” Brittany’s still collecting Dots.

   
A shaky smile. “I guess you did.”

   
“You should totally double date with us, Mercedes,” Brittany offers. “Your dates are going to be so much more awesome with Santana and me around.”

   
“Shane and me – uh, we broke up,” Mercedes says, awkwardly. It’s the first time she’s told anyone, not counting her mom and dad. Not even Kurt knows yet, or Rachel. Not that she’s talking to either of them all that much these days. “I broke up with him a couple of days ago. It just – I don’t know. It wasn’t right, I guess.” _I couldn’t stop thinking about Sam when I was kissing him_ , she doesn’t say.

   
Brittany looks sympathetic.

   
“Big mistake,” Santana tells her, waving a careless hand. “Seriously, Loretta Devine, it’s practically a miracle you found yourself two guys in a row willing to touch you, so I have no idea why you’d let this one go. It’s not like anyone’s waiting around to take his place.”

   
“ _Excuse_ me?” Sudden fury rising in her chest. Mercedes Jones isn’t anyone’s punching bag, especially not Santana’s. “You need to back the hell up and repeat what just came out of your mouth, Santana, because I _know_ I did not just hear you say that to me.”

   
“Your ears,” Santana smirks, “are definitely working.” She eyes Mercedes up and down. “Unlike your outfit. That much yellow should be punishable by solitary confinement. You look like a school bus.”

   
Mercedes can’t believe this. Just when she’d thought Santana was starting to act like a reasonable human being –

   
“I’m just saying what we all know is true, okay? I’m kind of like one of those Greek oracles, except I’m really hot and I don’t speak Latin.”

   
“Santana, come on, don’t be mean,” Brittany interrupts, standing up and brushing off her Cheerios skirt. “She doesn’t look like a school bus. She looks like a really curvy flower with boobs instead of petals. And I know for a fact at least one someone _does_ want to touch her, so you’re totally lying.”

   
This is news to Mercedes, who asks, “Wait, what?” just as Santana, eyes wide, says, “Brittany, no. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

   
“Santana had a crush on you last year,” Brittany volunteers, and Santana groans, slumping down into the chair by the window. “A big one. It’s _true_ , Santana. I don’t understand why you never want to talk about things that are true.”

   
“What?” Mercedes isn’t sure she’s heard right.

   
“I _don’t_ have a crush on her,” Santana insists, putting a hand over her eyes. “Why would you say that?”

   
“You did,” Brittany says, pleasantly. “I don’t know how you could forget something like that. You used to tell me all the time that her boobs were really annoying. At first I didn’t understand how Mercedes’s boobs could make anyone mad, because they make me want to throw glitter in the air and kiss an elf on his little, tiny cheek, but then I figured out why you talked about them so much.” She looks at Mercedes, her expression sunny. “You have to tell me what you sacrificed to the boob fairy so she made you her favorite. I want to know your secrets.”

   
“ _What_?”

   
“I think it was Matt Rutherford. That’s why he disappeared after sophomore year. Your boobs got totally bigger over summer break.”

   
“This is crazy.” Mercedes’s brain isn’t catching up with her tongue just yet, which apparently understands it has to do something about this insane conversation before it gets out of hand. “I mean, I didn’t sacrifice anything to any boob fairy, whatever the hell that is, and –” She turns to Santana, not sure what's going to come out of her mouth. “My boobs," she says, finally, "aren't annoying.”

   
Santana’s cheeks are bright red. “God, just – shut up. Your whole body’s annoying.”

   
“Great comeback.”

   
“You guys should make out,” Brittany offers, and Mercedes actually jumps at the suggestion like she’s been touched. “I think you both really want to do that, even though you’re pretending like you don’t. It’d be super hot.”

   
There’s something invisible running over her skin, teasing it awake. Everything in her is suddenly, intensely alert.

   
“Santana, do you still want to kiss her?”

   
“But wouldn't you –?” Santana asks, slowly, not finishing her sentence, and Brittany smiles at her. She looks, suddenly, a little like Sam. Not that they’re all that much alike, Sam and Brittany, except for the blonde hair, but it’s the same kind of expression on Brittany’s face Mercedes used to see on Sam’s, when the two of them were alone together. Like understanding.

   
A unexpected swell of longing hits her.

   
“It’s not wrong or bad if all three of us really want it to happen,” Brittany says, simply. “And it doesn’t mean I’m not still your favorite. I _know_ I’m your favorite. So be honest. Do you want to kiss her?”

   
“Yeah, I guess,” Santana says, after a pause that feels longer than a year. “Sure, fine, whatever. Look, it’s not my fault. Her mouth just pisses me off so much I want to make it be quiet.”

   
“Mercedes, do you want to kiss Santana?”

   
How the hell is she supposed to answer that? Mercedes steals a glance at Santana, whose lips are pursed tight, arms crossed over her chest in defense against whatever she’s going to say in response to Brittany.

   
“I,” she begins, and stops. She can’t say it. “Look, what I really want to do right now is get this performance sounding and looking good. That’s why we’re here, right? So let’s do it.”

   
“Great,” Santana bursts out, and Mercedes feels weirdly, irrationally offended at the relief in her voice. “Britt, just show us your moves. I want to get this over so’s I can get my _Deadliest Catch_ on.”

   
Good. That’s good, though. Santana’s on the same page.

 __

 _Oh, my lord, Santana had a crush on me_ , she thinks, despite herself, while Brittany starts to explain what she and Shelby have planned, and she flushes hot all over. This is weird. It’s _Santana_ , for crying out loud. Santana, the girl she’s never been able to stand, with her damn long legs and her too-short skirts and that smoky voice that sounds like it belongs in a 1940s lounge. The way she tosses her ponytail and lays down a verbal smack that leaves everyone in its path reeling, including Mr. Schue.

  
(Mercedes really loves those Mr. Schue smackdowns, though.)

   
It turns out Brittany’s actually not a bad teacher. She’s patient, which is nice, because it takes Mercedes more than a few do-overs to get each step down. That last miserable rehearsal with Mr. Schue isn’t far from her mind most of the time, anyway, but it’s right at the forefront now as she’s trying to translate what Brittany’s showing her into her own body. This body that never seems to do exactly what she wants. Mercedes doesn’t want to mess things up, not now that she’s got this new chance to shine as bright as she can.

   
“Shit,” she says, after her hand goes left and her feet go right, when it’s supposed to be the opposite. She’s not going to get teary about this, she tells herself. She _isn’t_.

   
“You’re gonna get it,” Brittany promises. “You totally are. Just stop making your brain work so hard and your body will figure it out. Bodies are smart, you know, if you just let them be smart. Once I let my body take a geometry test instead of my brain and I did such a great job, the teacher asked me to leave the classroom.”

   
Santana shakes her head.

   
“It’s why I’m going to win the election,” Brittany continues. “The smartest bodies always win.”

   
This makes a weird kind of sense to Mercedes, who thinks maybe, for once, she gets what Brittany means. It has to do with how you carry yourself, not just during a performance but in your life, without taking a bunch of wrong steps, or faltering. That’s always been one of her goals, and she’s usually been good at it, but lately she’s been moving all wrong, out of sync. Since Sam –

   
“Let’s keep going,” she says, interrupting her own thoughts, and motions to Santana to join her again.

   
This time, she lands it, not perfectly but she’s getting there: feet hitting her mark when Santana sings her line. She twirls in place, belting _I will survive_ as they join together on the chorus, swaying their hips in unison. It’s a great song, a classic she used to practice as a kid, singing into the little microphone she’d plugged into her CD player. The mashup Shelby’s arranged for them is amazing. Way better than anything Mr. Schue’s done.

   
Soon she’ll be singing it on a real stage, in front of a huge crowd. They’ll be watching _her_. Not Rachel. _Her._ Mercedes is gonna have that audience eating out of her hand and begging for more, like the diva she knows she’s always been. Only now, everyone else’ll know it too.

   
Brittany cheers when they finish the verse, pumping her first into the air, and Mercedes grins, a real, honest-to-goodness grin. It isn’t until she feels the unfamiliar stretch of her cheeks that she realizes how long it’s been since she had a good reason to smile that widely.

   
“We’re gonna win this,” she tells them both, all the confidence she’s been missing for weeks. Her face is warm with certainty and joy. “With the three of us? Our fabulous, hot selves storming up that stage? Rachel Berry doesn’t stand a chance.”

   
“No,” Santana agrees, for once, and the grin on her face matches Mercedes’s. “She doesn’t.”

   
The next step’s a little trickier, because they’ve got to do it together. Santana, on Brittany’s instruction, stands directly behind Mercedes, cupping each side of Mercedes’s waist. There’s a weird delay at first, which she guesses, with a twist of embarrassment, has to do with how intimate this is. It takes a few extra seconds before she feels the pressure of the other girl’s palms, fingers curling against the soft swell of her middle.

   
She waits for a nasty, defensive comment about the size of her body that doesn’t come. Santana’s weirdly quiet, all of a sudden.

   
“Okay,” Brittany says, clapping rhythmically, “one, two, three, _shift_ ,” and Mercedes moves her right foot to the side just as Santana moves forward, in a perfect mismatch. They stumble together, nearly falling, but Santana's quick reaction saves them as her arms wrap around Mercedes, pulling her tight, holding her up just in time.

   
“Well, this sure isn’t part of the choreography,” Mercedes says, as they steady together, but she’s not trying to move away. Santana’s palms are warm, two small heaters. She’s breathing hard just behind Mercedes’s ear. It’s strained, low, quick.

   
She can feel Santana’s breasts, pressed firmly against her back.

   
“Really freaking brilliant, Weezy,” she snaps. “We should totally throw a party in honor of how smart you are.”

   
There’s an sudden throb of arousal between her legs, a unexpected, needy ache like she hasn’t felt since that last night with Sam. Mercedes closes her eyes, letting Santana push against her body.

   
“Oh,” she says.

   
Somewhere to her right, close by, she hears Brittany say, quietly, “I could tell you what the next step is. But only if you really want to know.”

   
Yes, she realizes, and nods. Yes, she wants to know. God, yes, she does.

   
“The next step,” Brittany continues, “is you put your hands on Santana’s hips. She likes that.”

   
Mercedes obeys, reaching behind blindly to find the curve of Santana’s body with her fingers, gripping harder than she needs to. Her hands slide up a little, taking the skirt an inch or two higher, and it’s mostly an accident, but Santana makes a small sound: a strained, hot exhale against Mercedes’s hairline.

   
“I hate you,” she hisses, but she’s still pushing forward into Mercedes.

   
“You don’t really hate her,” Brittany says, kindly. “I know you’re just saying that ‘cause it makes you feel better about being wet right now.”

   
Santana’s voice is suddenly weak, shaky. “Jesus, Brittany –”

   
“She doesn’t hate you, Mercedes,” Brittany repeats. “Actually, I’m pretty sure she wants to touch you.”

   
“Yeah?” Mercedes opens her eyes, turning her head just enough so that she can see the line of Santana’s shoulder, the curve leading to her neck. Santana’s breathing is driving her crazy, each inhale sending a corresponding pulse to her groin. “So just do it already. Come on.”

  
“Tell me the next step,” Santana says, softly.

  
“The next step,” Brittany continues, “is Santana holds Mercedes’s boobs.”

  
The hands pressed against her stomach slide up quickly, cupping her breasts. Santana’s thumbs stroke expertly over her nipples, pressing hard enough to make them peak even through the fabric of her t-shirt and bra. Back and forth, back and forth.

  
An involuntary noise escapes her own mouth.

  
“Mercedes,” she hears, in her ear, Santana saying her name like she’s just now learning it, all slow and unsteady. “Mercedes, _god_.”

  
“Like that,” whispers Brittany, “you’re doing so good,” and she steps close, leaning in behind Mercedes. Mercedes can’t see, exactly, but the slick, soft sounds makes it obvious: Brittany and Santana are kissing. She arches into Santana’s touch, groaning, Brittany’s small sighs making her need it more.

  
 _Love you_ , she thinks she hears Brittany whisper to Santana, but it’s so quiet she isn’t sure she heard right, and Santana doesn’t answer.

  
“What’s next?” she asks, when she can’t wait any longer. “Give me the next step.”

  
“Kiss her neck, Santana,” Brittany says, low, and there’s no pause this time. She feels the hot, wet pressure of a mouth just below her ear, Santana’s tongue licking out slow. Damn, she loves having her neck kissed. Sam used to – but that’s not something she wants to think about right now. “You want to kiss her so badly, don’t you, baby? Really kiss her.”

  
“Yeah,” Santana breathes, against Mercedes’s neck. Her thumbs pass over the swell of her breasts again, teasing the hard points. “Yeah, I do.”

  
Brittany’s mouth is on Mercedes’s ear, licking the shell of it, sucking briefly on an earlobe, and she feels the pressure of another hand on her breast, joining Santana’s, stroking the skin. “Mercedes,” Brittany whispers, “we want to make you feel good, me and Santana, okay? Santana even more than me, but both of us want to do it.”

  
Mercedes nods, not sure what might come out of her if she tried to speak right now, and twists in Santana’s arms. She sees Santana’s face, just for a second, before Mercedes closes her eyes. The way it’s unfocused with need, her mouth open and a little wet, that’s what gives Mercedes the courage to move forward and kiss her.

  
Really kiss her, like she hasn’t ever wanted to kiss anyone except – and Santana’s mouth is soft, glossy with the dregs of lipstick. She moves slowly, taking Mercedes’s lower lip between her own, running her tongue over it, until Mercedes has to push back, kiss Santana harder because she can’t stand how good it feels, she _can’t_.

  
Brittany’s behind Mercedes now, her hands stroking Mercedes’s breasts and stomach like she’s the dance they’re learning now. “More?” she whispers, and takes Mercedes’s earlobe in her mouth. “You sound like you want more.”

  
Mercedes thinks she knows what _more_ means, and it doesn’t scare her, not at all.

  
She’d slept with Sam twice, once before he’d gotten the news about his dad’s job, once right before he’d left. Sam’s hands were what she remembered best about it, what she reached for at night when she needed something to make her feel good. He’d been nervous both times, just as nervous as she was, but the way he’d touched her – that was sure.

  
But that’s gone now. Sam’s gone, and she knows now she never really wanted Shane, and she feels so good. Better than she’s felt since right before she’d gotten the text that read _can I c u right now we need to talk_. She’s not gonna think about what this means, or if she likes girls now, or if Santana’ll give her hell for this somehow at school on Monday. She’ll just let her body be smart.

  
“More,” she says, and feeling bold, slides her hand up Santana’s thigh, beneath her skirt.

  
Her fingers meet the rough scratch of lace, thin enough so she can feel the contour of what’s beneath. Santana makes a small noise, something almost loud enough to be a gasp, and she spreads her legs a little wider, accommodating Mercedes’s hand without protest.

  
“You like that, huh?” Mercedes asks. The words trail up a little at the end, higher then she’d meant them to be, as Brittany pushes Mercedes's hair to one side, pressing her mouth against the skin of her shoulder. Her teeth nip, just a little. Mercedes shivers.

  
Santana doesn’t answer.

  
She nudges the small strip of fabric aside as best she can, blindly feeling her way, and _damn_ , is Santana turned on. Mercedes pushes a finger past the lips, lightly stroking the slick, slippery folds beneath. What she wants more than anything is to hear Santana react.

  
“Tell me what you want,” she says.

  
“Fuck you,” Santana manages.

  
The right answer comes to her so quickly she’s almost giddy. “If you’re nice.”

  
“Santana likes it when you make her ask for it,” Brittany volunteers. Santana groans, although Mercedes isn’t sure whether it’s because she’s embarrassed or because hearing her girlfriend say it turns her on. Maybe both.

  
“So come on then,” she whispers, pulling Santana as closely as she can, and Mercedes hears Brittany exhale in response, feels the warm breath on her skin. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

  
She moves her finger faster, sliding over the swelling clit, guessing that what Mercedes does to herself when she’s alone in her room at night is damn sure good enough for Santana Lopez. Santana’s head falls back, her chin pointing high, and she pushes back into Mercedes’s hand, trying to get more contact.

  
“Press hard,” Brittany whispers, “she’ll ask for it then,” and Mercedes obeys.

  
“Fuck,” Santana gasps, almost instantly, and then, “Just – fuck me, please, fuck me right now, I need it – ”

  
“Use two fingers,” Brittany instructs, and cups her hand between Mercedes’s legs, pressing lightly. Mercedes squeezes her thighs together, wanting more. “We’ll take care of you next, okay? I promise. You’re doing really good.”

  
Two fingers, sure, she can do that, and she slides them inside as best she can, twisting her hand to get it comfortable. It’s different, doing this with her hand up instead of curled back into her own body, but it’s the same, too, the same warm, wet feedback on her fingers. Mercedes crooks them on the spot she likes best for herself, and apparently Santana likes it too; she says, voice breaking, “Oh, my _god_ -”

  
“That means do it faster,” Brittany translates, and she reaches forward across Mercedes’s shoulder to stroke Santana’s hair. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  
 _Yes_ , Mercedes thinks, even though she can’t see Santana’s face, not when they’re this close and Santana’s mouth is bumping against her ear and cheek as they rock together. She’s beckoning with her fingers, over and over, _come here, come here_ , and Santana comes, shaking hard and hot on Mercedes’s fingers, whimpering as she seizes.

  
“You have to be really smart,” Brittany whispers, in Mercedes’s ear, “to make her do _that_.”

  
They move to the bed afterwards, the unspoken agreement between the three of them that they’d be more comfortable continuing at least semi-horizontally. Mercedes lies on her back on Santana’s expensive-feeling sheets, closing her eyes as a pair of hands – Brittany? Santana? – pull down her leggings and underwear. There’s a small part of her, still, that feels nervous about being exposed like this. What if she’s not right, somehow? Sam was a virgin, too, when they’d – he wouldn’t know. But Santana would. Brittany would.

  
Instead of the comment she’s half-expecting to hear, there’s the press of a warm mouth on the inside of her thigh, and oh, lord, now that she’s sure what’s coming she’s got a whole other thing to worry about. No one’s ever – there. Not even Sam.

  
“I,” she starts, sitting up a little on her elbows, opening her eyes, and sees the top of Brittany’s head, blonde hair shifting as she moves between Mercedes’s bare legs. Santana sits down at the edge of the bed, watching Brittany. “Wait a second.”

  
Brittany stops, lifting her head. “What’s the matter?”

  
She doesn’t know how to say what she’s thinking. Her cheeks flush with sudden, intense embarrassment. “It’s just – should I go clean myself out first or something? Won’t it taste kind of – ” Mercedes can’t finish the sentence.

  
Santana and Brittany exchange a look.

  
“Didn’t you ever try yourself?” Brittany asks.

  
Is that something people _do_? Mercedes shakes her head, still mute.

  
“Mercedes,” Santana says, finally. She reaches down, raising Mercedes’s hand, and isolates the two fingers she’d had inside her, just a few minutes earlier, raising the fingers to Mercedes’s mouth. “Try it. God, you won’t _choke_ or anything, I promise.”

  
Mercedes, feeling like an fool, obeys. The taste is a little tangy, and strong, too, in a way that doesn’t really bother her. It’s kind of interesting, actually. She notices Santana’s face is reddening, as she sucks, and when Mercedes realizes why, there’s a renewed kick of arousal between her legs.

  
“That’s it?” she says, taking her fingers out of her mouth.

  
“That's it. But everyone’s a little different,” Brittany tells her. “You know, like how nobody’s fingerprints taste alike.”

  
Mercedes lets her arms relax, falling back onto the bed. “Okay,” she says, closing her eyes again, and she means it. “Then I’m ready.”

  
“Relax,” Santana murmurs. The sound’s close.

  
Right. She relaxes.

  
Brittany’s hands rest on the inside of her thighs, pushing them gently open, and Mercedes feels the press of Brittany’s mouth again, higher up this time, slow and gentle. Someone traces the swell of her breasts, teasing the sides. Santana.

  
Closer, now, exhales just to the side of where she wants pressure, and Mercedes’s hips lift a little off the mattress. Brittany licks out at the juncture of thigh and groin, pressing her tongue flat and hard, holding it still for a second or two.

  
Fingers brush over her chin. Mercedes lets Santana tease her mouth open without protest just as Brittany centers in, lip nudging apart Mercedes’s lips, tongue working over and inside. She hears a happy sound from Brittany, something that reminds her of the cat who got the cream. Mercedes sucks at Santana’s searching finger, catching it between her teeth.

  
“Touch me,” she tells Santana, around the digit. “I want,” and then the sentence falls apart as Brittany sucks harder, mouth moving eagerly on her pussy, moaning into her like Mercedes is some kind of rare, ripe fruit, swelling fast.

  
It takes her longer to come than she’d hoped, and towards the end she starts to feel a little guilty, like she shouldn’t be taking up so much time – but then it hits her just right, everything at once. Santana’s tongue is swiping over one exposed nipple, and Brittany’s making sounds like she’d rather be doing this than just about anything in the _world_. Mercedes opens her eyes, catching a blurry glimpse of moving blonde hair between her thighs.

  
“Oh,” she gasps, as she runs up those last, close steps to orgasm, and later she wonders if she said a name, then, too.

____

  
They curl up together on the bed, afterwards, sticky and warm and pleased. Brittany’s in between Santana and Mercedes, one hand trailing through Santana’s hair, the other stroking Mercedes’s arm, lightly. She could fall asleep, just like this, even though it’s not even dark out yet.

  
“Love you too,” Santana murmurs, eventually, into Brittany’s shoulder. She says it again, softer, and again, softer, until Mercedes can’t hear it.

  
There’s a sure hand on her arm. Mercedes squints and turns her head towards Brittany’s, her cheek catching blonde hair as she nestles in close.


End file.
